


The scars you cannot see

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celeborn has 'Thranduil needs me' senses, Honestly canon typical violence doesn't mean much, Hurt Thranduil (Tolkien), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, No Beta we die like Oropher, Once again I should be sleeping or writing other fics, Protective Celeborn (Tolkien), Protective Galion (Tolkien), Protective Legolas Greenleaf, Recovery, SO GREAT, and I'm pretty sure Thranduil is my hyperfixation atm, because I am fucking ridiculous, because I just love familial Thranduil and Celeborn, but here i am, don't please I'd lose my job..., for these fandoms, great times, omfg, sue me, this was meant to be a short little thing, turned into this, with emphasis on both?!?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:13:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: In which Legolas asks his father a difficult question and is not prepared for the answerOrIn which Thranduil knows who he is and not even the Valar can tell him otherwise
Comments: 13
Kudos: 89





	The scars you cannot see

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got super desperate for hurt and vulnerable Thranduil with caring other... and this is the result. My heart hurts. 
> 
> So, for the purposes of this fic: Celeborn and Oropher are/were brothers, elves age slow as fuck, and Thranduil and Luthien grew up together, she was older than he was and when Doriath was destroyed, he was still considered to be a teenager, probably around eighteen/nineteen in human terms... Legolas can be considered to be in his 20s in human terms... 
> 
> I think that's everything?

“Have you ever been tortured before, adar?”

Thranduil’s breath catches in his throat and it takes everything that he is not to shatter the delicate glass goblet nestled in his hand. Thankfully, he’d already swallowed his sip of the wine within, or he’s certain he would be choking on it. With more care than he honestly ever thought capable, he puts the goblet down on the table, his lungs protesting as he realizes he has yet to remember how to breathe. He coughs and clears his throat, rubbing at his chest.

_‘Do you think it’d break your father’s heart if we sent him back yours?’_ He sucks in a breath and pushes the memory away.

“Yes, I have been. Why do you ask?” Thranduil queries, looking across the table to his only child. Reminds himself to breathe even as cold dread seeps into his heart. There have been times in the past where Legolas has returned to him more broken than he left, but Thranduil had never considered that anything more than the dangers of being on Patrol, but now, he wonders if he should have questioned further.

“I overheard people talking about Cousin Celebrian.” Legolas explains, looking down at the plate in front of him, Thranduil lets out a quiet, relieved breath, then immediately feels guilty for feeling such. “I know on the Patrol, we make sure that we come back alive and that, if we can’t, then we don’t come back an orc, but-“ Thranduil watches his son try to put his words into order, it’s something Legolas has always struggled with, since his mother’s passing. Thranduil has rarely been better since his own mother’s loss.

“What are you asking, ion nin?” Thranduil asks when his son doesn’t speak again. This isn’t a conversation that he wants to be having, but he must, lest it fester in Legolas’ mind and ruin him.

“Was it bad?” Legolas finally queries, but Thranduil can tell that isn’t what his son was meaning to say.

_‘I’ve never had elven royalty before, wonder if they’ll take you back after I taint you, take you,_ break _you.’_

He doesn’t realize that his eyes have closed until he’s forcing them open, his hands shaking as he grips the edge of the table. He forces his breaths to even out, forces his heart to beat steady in his chest.

“All torture is bad, Legolas. No matter what purpose it serves and no matter what is done.” He finally says, when he knows his voice will not betray him. “Why do you ask these things, ion nin?”

“I worry.” Legolas answers, lifting his eyes from the plate to meet Thranduil’s own. “Besides you, I am the most important person in the Greenwood, the most beneficial hostage. I worry that I do not know what to expect and that I do not know how to survive it, how to not give in.”

“Oh, ion nin.” The words leave him in a gush of breath and he feels a great weight settle on his shoulders. “Come, we will discuss this in more comfort and seclusion.” He decides, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet, Legolas scrambling to follow his lead.

They do not speak as they walk through the halls, until they are hidden in their shared living space, where no one but a few select individuals would ever dare bother them.

Thranduil sinks down onto the settee with his heart in his throat, the traumas of his past are long buried, but they resurface at their own whims and he is ever scrambling to ensure they stay buried. Now, he has to bring them up, bare them once more to the harsh light of day in the hops that his son will gain some measure of peace from his father’s own discomfort.

“You know what happened to Celebrian?” Thranduil asks, as Legolas lingers just inside the closed doorway. He wonders if his son is just now realizing exactly what he is asking of his father this evening. His elfling has ever struggled with the very idea of tact.

“Not really.” Legolas answers, finally crossing to sit down across from Thranduil, though he sits perched like he’s ready to run at any time. Thranduil finds that oddly amusing, since he is the one who has the trauma to share, not Legolas. “I know she was captured and badly hurt, poisoned, and that she never really recovered. That’s it.”

“I see.” Thranduil states, drumming his fingers along the arm of the settee absently as he considers the multitude of things he could say here. “Celebrian was not taken because of her usefulness as a hostage. In fact, I assume the orcs didn’t even know the importance of the elleth that fell into their hands or I imagine Imladris _and_ Lothlorien would have fallen as a result. What happened to Celebrian was simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no reason for it other than sheer cruelty.”

“Is that better or worse than if they had known?”

“I could not say.” Thranduil answers shaking his head, because such has long been a debate among their kind, to be recognized as an important hostage and thus kept alive so long as you are still useful or kept for sport and then killed when your captors grow bored. None have ever agreed which is worse. “I will not tell you Celebrian’s story, for that is hers to tell.”

“But, adar-“

“I will tell you mine.” Thranduil continues, speaking as if Legolas hadn’t interrupted him. “I warn you, this isn’t a pleasant story, ion nin. It ends without great tragedy due to sheer dumb luck and your Uncle Celeborn’s ridiculous ability to know when I need him.”

“He’s good at that, isn’t he?” Legolas asks, a little smile tugging at his lips, Thranduil feels his own twitch in response.

“He’s always been that way.” He says, thinking of all the times his uncle has appeared to save him from his own stupidity, or to save him from an early grave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows up in the next few days, either.”

“Oh!” Legolas exclaims, his eyes rushing to meet Thranduil’s, worry shining in them. “Adar, you don’t have to tell me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, ion nin. You are the most precious thing in my life.” Thranduil promises, though he still sees the doubt and worry in his son’s eyes. “Come here.” He says, holding his arms open and before he can say a single thing more, Legolas is scrambling into his side, spindly arms wrapping tight around his middle. “You need to know what might happen to you; if you are caught as I was. I pray your knowledge of such things will remain only from stories and never from experience.”

“Will it help?” Legolas asks, his voice small as he looks up at his father.

“Help you or help me?” Thranduil queries, tucking the stray strands of his son’s hair behind his ear.

“Both?”

“Well, they do say speaking of trauma can help you heal from it, but I think I’ve gotten all the healing I can from that avenue.” Thranduil answers, absently running his hands through Legolas’ hair as he looks across to the fire burning merrily in the hearth. “As for you? Knowing might help you prepare yourself should you, gods forbid, ever be caught like I was. That preparedness might save you from the shock.”

“Alright, adar. I’m listening.” Legolas tells him, though Thranduil can hear the apprehension in his voice. Thranduil breathes in deeply, closes his eyes and starts to tell his story.

“Your grandfather had just been named King of Greenwood and I its Crown Prince. I didn’t want to be Crown Prince. Not after seeing what happened to King Thingol and King Dior in Doriath. Being a king just painted a target on your back and I didn’t want that for my father and I.” Thranduil sighs, thinking about how right he had been, but there had been no one else suitable and there still was not. “Your grandfather and I argued, we each said things that we didn’t mean and when our fight was over, I threw my crown at his feet and told him to find another son, I didn’t want to be his anymore.”

“Adar!” Legolas exclaims in his arms, the shock evident in his voice, Thranduil huffs, a small smile pulling at his lips despite himself.

“I was an overly emotional adolescent at the time, Legolas.” Thranduil explains, before the smile slips away. “I left. Fled out from Amon Lanc, running until I could not run any longer. There were still orcs and other foul creatures that roamed the lands, despite Morgoth’s great defeat. Sauron had not yet revealed himself as Annatar, and the orcs were scattered and leaderless. Wandering the lands in obsessive rage and hate. It was a pair of such orcs that I ran afoul of, at the edge of the forest, where the East Bight now is, though it was all woodland then.”

* * *

_‘Run, elfling!’_

_He jolts at the yell in his mind that is not his own. The trees here are so talkative, more so than the trees back in Doriath had ever been, but he doesn’t know why he would need to be running, when he’s just done little else._

_‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, looking up the canopy above him, the world still blurring through the tears that have yet to stop falling._

_‘Yrch.’ The tree warns and his heart goes cold in his chest. He’s unarmed and unarmoured. ‘Run!’_

_He turns on his heel and starts running, hoping he’s racing back the way he just came from, but he wasn’t paying attention when he left Amon Lanc and he doesn’t know which way he’s going and he can barely see because his tears are falling now for an entirely different reason._

_In his mind, he hears the trees trying to direct him, trying to help, but he’s so panicked he can barely tell which way is up, so he just runs, until he plants his foot unevenly beneath him and his ankle collapses, sending him crashing to the forest floor. He sobs helplessly, gasping in breaths when he feels a warm pain in his ankle and he knows that he’s sprained it, at the very least._

_‘Run! Run! Run!’ the trees chant in his mind and he struggles to obey, using the tree trunk beside him to pull himself up, but the pain when he tries to walk is immense. He limps, using the trees as supports, as he continues, still not sure he’s going the right way, but not having any other option. ‘Run!’ He wants to run but he can’t._

_His heart jolts in his chest when he hears heavy feet trampling through the forest nearby and he bites down on his lip so he doesn’t sob in fear and give himself away. His breaths are harsh and no matter what he does, he can’t get them to come down. He continues onwards, suddenly wishing he were back in the castle, arguing with his father, or enduring the boring council meetings or any of the things he’s hated since they moved to this cursed forest. Any of them would be better than this._

_“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing.” His breath catches in his throat and slowly he turns towards the voice. His heart hammering in his chest, finds a vicious looking orc standing before him, sword drawn and a cruel smile on their lips. Thranduil stumbles backwards, ignoring the pain in his leg as he goes, until he backs into something hard and foul smelling and looks up to find another orc snarling down at him. He bites down on the scream that wants to claw its way out of his throat when the orc grabs his arms and holds him tight. He will not. He will not give them the satisfaction._

_“I’ve seen your pretty face before,_ princeling _.” The orc that holds him snares and Thranduil closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe, just keep breathing. He bites deeper into his lip when the orc shoves him to the floor, hears the trees panicking in his mind and shoves them away. He can’t focus on their panic and his own and keep breathing._

_“What would your father give us to return you to him safely?” the first orc queries, and Thranduil opens his eyes to watch the pair circling around him. If he had a weapon, any weapon, he could take them, both of them, but he doesn’t. He has nothing. “If he doesn’t play the game, we could crush him. Do you think it would break your father’s heart if we sent him yours, elfling?”_

_“My father will not bargain. You might as well kill me now.” Thranduil snaps, finding his voice and his anger. “I have been disowned.” He does not mention that he disowned himself, he will not place his father or his people at risk because he was stupid. He won’t._

_“Then you’re just like every other piece of elvish meat then, aren’t you?” the second orc asks, getting in his face, Thranduil shudders but refuses to look away. “Fun to play with, but not all too fun to eat.”_

_“Have your fun, then.” He commands them, his eyes narrowing, even as he pushes down his fear. “Waste your precious time on me and when my kinsmen find you, you will have nowhere to run and no time to do it in.” His heart is pounding so hard in his chest and he doesn't know where this confidence comes from, because he doesn't feel it.  
_

_“But you’ve been disowned.” The first orc points out, gripping Thranduil by the hair and pulling him up onto his knees. Thranduil grits his teeth and refuses to otherwise react. “Why would your kinsmen be searching?”_

_“The trees will have carried word of your presence here. My father might not care for me, but he will not allow you to taint his forest more than you already are.” He says, spitting into the orc’s face, he gasps in pain and shock when he’s roughly thrown into a tree, hears the tree apologizing in the back of his mind._

_“I don’t believe you, princeling.” The first orc states, crossing to stand before him with a calculating look in his eyes. “But, if you are right, we’ll just have to leave then, won’t we? See if anyone bothers to come for their wayward princeling.” Thranduil finds himself being roughly pulled to his feet, he sucks in a breath as his weight lands on his injured foot, knows the orcs realize this weakness, too, when they laugh. He just grits his teeth and keeps his anger swirling in his gut. “Walk.” He’s told, as he’s shoved forward, he stumbles a few steps, before catching himself and forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other._

_“You try to run; I’ll make you regret the day you were born.” The second orc warns him, Thranduil doesn’t doubt it, but he knows he will be testing such later._

* * *

“And then Uncle Celeborn swooped in and saved you?” Legolas asks, when Thranduil realizes he’s fallen silent for just a little too long.

“No, ion nin.” Thranduil murmurs, let’s his hands run through Legolas’ hair as he tries to find the courage to keep speaking.

“You don’t have to tell me more, adar.” Legolas assures him, looking up at him with such innocent eyes it makes Thranduil’s heart hurt. For all that his son is an adult, he's so _young_.

“Hush, ion nin. I will not leave the story unfinished.” He decides, shifting in his seat to get comfortable again, without dislodging his son. “They forced me to walk on my _broken_ ankle for hours, we’d long passed out from under the canopy of the trees and were crossing over the plains when they decided they had gone far enough.”

* * *

_He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, the pain in his leg has become a familiar companion now and he finds he’s almost forgotten what it was like not to have it. His world has become an endless cycle of putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to fall over when rough hands grab him and shove him around. Then, suddenly, he yelps when his hair is pulled and he’s thrown to the ground._

_“Enough walking.” The first orc, or as Thranduil has begun to call him in his mind, One, growls, cruelly tugging on Thranduil’s hair. “It’s play time.” One continues, before suddenly stomping down on Thranduil’s bad ankle. Thranduil just barely contains the scream that tries to tear from his throat at the pain that immediately rips through him. If the ankle hadn’t been broken before, it certainly is broken now._

_“I’m going to break you, pretty princeling.” The second orc, or as Thranduil has begun to call them in his mind, Two, promises, as Thranduil watches him unsheathe a dagger. Thranduil forces himself to remain still even as the orc slices the dagger across his cheek, the blade sharp enough to draw blood, but the pressure not enough to do anything worse. “Can’t let you go wriggling away.” Two states, grabbing Thranduil by the neck and slamming him to the ground, Thranduil groans as his head impacts the hard dirt and he’s blinking spots out of his vision when hot, slick pain forms in his hand and he can’t help the scream that sounds through his teeth. He looks towards his left and finds the orc’s dagger stuck through his hand, pinning him to the earth, blood leaking around the wound. He lets out a sob he can’t stop and tries to fight when he feels Two grabbing his other arm._

_“No. No.” he exclaims, trying to pull free but there is nothing he can do, and his arm is wrenched to the earth and he cries when he feels a blade pass through his hand. Now, he is lying spread eagled on the ground and the only way to free himself is to cut his hands in two. He doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until he chokes on them and has to gasp for breath, while above him, Two just laughs._

* * *

He stops talking when he hears a sob and looks down to find Legolas sobbing against his chest, his son’s hand clinging tightly to his tunic.

“Oh, ion nin. I’m fine. I’m right here.” Thranduil soothes, cradling Legolas against his chest, even as his heart breaks inside him. He knows he should stop, shouldn’t tell him anymore, but now that he’s started, he doesn’t think he can stop, and if he does stop, it’ll eat him up from within.

“When is Uncle Celeborn coming?” Legolas asks, his voice so small. “You said he saves you!”

“I did, ion nin and he does save me. But not yet.”

“Do you have the scars?” Legolas queries, pulling away a little to reach for Thranduil’s hands, turning them with his own. Thranduil sucks in a breath and releases the glamour over the wounds. Legolas’ breath hitches when he sees the matching scars on both of Thranduil’s hands, on the back and on the palms.

“Were you worried you wouldn’t be able to use your hands?”

“For a little while afterwards, yes.” Thranduil looks down at the scars and frowns. “When we lived in Doriath, I learnt healing at Queen Melian’s heel, with Luthien and the Lady Galadriel-”

“Lady Galadriel knows healing?” Legolas interrupts, excitedly, Thranduil laughs and shakes his head.

“ _No_. Healing was the one art that Lady Galadriel struggled with, quite profoundly. I excelled at it, while Luthien was a good healer, but her heart wasn’t in it.” He explains, squeezing Legolas’ hands. “After myself, Lord Elrond was considered the best healer in Middle-earth, so he was called to help me. I had to teach him healing, as Melian taught me, so he could convince all the internal parts of my hands to heal as they should. I am grateful to him, no one else could have done as he did.”

“If we didn’t have to fight the Darkness all the time, would you make this a place of healing? Like Imladris?”

“I don’t know, Legolas. I haven’t done serious healing, outside of a battle, since Doriath.” Thranduil explains, before looking down at his hands and slowly letting the glamour wind back around the scars.

“Why do you hide them, adar?”

“I don’t like looking at them and remembering how I got them, ion nin.” Thranduil explains, breathing in deeply, then slowly letting it out. “Are you ready for me to continue the story?”

“Uncle Celeborn saves you.” Legolas states, looking at him with determined eyes, Thranduil feels his lips twitching in response.

“He does, or I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.” Thranduil confirms, watches as Legolas nods his head and sighs heavily.

“Alright.” Legolas agrees, but just as Thranduil is about to continue the story, there is a knock at the door.

“Enter.” Thranduil calls, knowing only a handful of people will bother them here. The door opens and Galion peeks inside.

“Are you alright, aran nin?” Galion asks, his face pulled into a concerned frown. “The servants say you didn’t finish dinner.”

“I’m fine, mellon nin.” Thranduil answers, looking down at Legolas in his arms, before returning his attention to his oldest living friend, he sighs heavily. “Legolas asked if I have ever been tortured before.”

“Oh.” Galion exclaims, the heartbreak that forms on his face is one that Thranduil has seen countless times before and he smiles softly at the sight of it.

“I’m alright.” He promises, knowing his friend will not believe him.

“Call for me, if you need me.” Galion assures him, even though they both know the if is in fact a _when._

“I promise.” He says, before Galion is backing out of the room, shutting the door after him. Thranduil breathes in and slowly breathes out to gather his thoughts before he launches back into the story.

* * *

_Two is laughing. Thranduil sobs and tries to keep as still as he can, but he can’t stop shaking, his whole-body trembling._

_“I’ve never had elven royalty before, wonder if they’ll take you back after I taint you, take you,_ break _you.” Two ponders, pressing his face into Thranduil’s neck, he assumes to smell his fear, but he jolts when he feels the orc’s wet tongue on his skin, the sensation is followed by sharp teeth biting into his flesh, that horrid tongue lapping at his blood. He shifts his arm and screams when he jars the blade in his hand. “No one will save you, pretty princeling.” Two assures him, before Thranduil feels his clothing being torn away, he closes his eyes and prays softly to any gods or Valar or divine beings, but he knows from Doriath that none of them are listening and even when they do listen, they aren’t happy to do so. No one is going to save him._

_He shivers in fear and from the sudden cold of the air on his bare skin. He cries out in desperate dread when a gnarled hand lands on his thigh…_

* * *

“Adar?” Thranduil jumps at the voice and looks down to find Legolas knelt down on the floor before him, looking up at him.

“Legolas?”

“You stopped talking and just started staring at nothing.” Legolas explains gently, he reaches up to wipe at Thranduil’s face and Thranduil realizes he’s crying. “You don’t have to tell me anymore, adar. I can fill in the blanks.” He nods, feeling suddenly numb, but that’s not quite the right word, because there is something like a mingling of sorrow and rage stuck in his throat and he can’t get it out.

Someone sobs and it takes him far too long to realize it’s him. Legolas is scrambling back onto the couch beside him, his son’s arms wrapping around him, until he’s cradled against Legolas’ chest, in a reversal of how they had been before. His son’s hands run through his hair while he sobs against Legolas’ chest.

It’s a little while before the sobbing subsides and he breathes quietly, listening to the sound of Legolas’ heart beating in his ears, the most soothing sound.

“Uncle Celeborn saves you?” Legolas prompts, though his voice sounds weak and scared and Thranduil cannot blame him. How often does your only parent explain one of the most harrowing experiences of their life, because you _asked?_

“Uncle Celeborn saves me.” Thranduil confirms, clearing his throat when his voice grates over his lips. Legolas leaves his side for just a second, returning with a glass of water that he offers Thranduil with a pinched smile, one that Thranduil returns as he takes the glass and downs its contents. Carefully setting the glass down, so he will not accidentally shatter it.

* * *

_He’s screaming and sobbing a litany of prayers he’s not certain even make sense, his mind so jumbled as his thoughts trip and tumble all over themselves as they flee his grasp. His willpower has turned to keeping his hands as still as he can make them, because this is the only thing that he can do for himself now._

_Suddenly, the weight on top of him is gone, wrenched away, he almost doesn’t notice, so lost in his own despair. He doesn’t stop screaming, even though his voice has all but gone hoarse with it. He only cries harder when a pair of hands land on either side of his face, he screams like a wild thing and gnashes his teeth, but he keeps his arms held stock still._

_It’s only when the hands leave him and do not come back, not for a long while, that he stops screaming abruptly. His jaw slamming shut in confused shock, as everything falls silent._

_“Thranduil?” he flinches at the sudden noise, his breath jumping when he recognizes the voice._

_“Uncle Celeborn?” he mumbles, his voice a broken thing._

_“I’m here, Tithen Tuil, I’m here.” His uncle promises, he forces his eyes open and blinks away his tears and finds his beloved uncle sitting beside him. “I need you to keep still for just a little bit longer, alright?” His uncle asks and he nods, swallowing his new sobs. He doesn’t notice when the blades have been removed from his hands, doesn’t know they have been until his uncle places his hands beneath Thranduil’s back and pulls him to sit up. He sucks in a breath, expecting to feel the pain as the blades cut into his hands, but nothing comes._

_He looks down and finds his hands are now in his lap, bleeding, but unimpaled and he can’t quite make sense of this. Until his uncle’s gentle hands are taking his left one and binding it tightly with a torn length of fabric, that Thranduil realizes had been his tunic, once. He watches his uncle bind first his left hand, then his right one, before his uncle is slipping off his cloak and draping it around Thranduil’s shoulders._

_“Let’s get you back to your ada.” His uncle says, all but pulling him to his feet and crushing him against his chest, holding tight._

_“Adar and I had a fight.” Thranduil tells him, his voice small and broken and not his voice at all._

_“He would want to know how you are, Thranduil.” His uncle murmurs, pulling back to cup Thranduil’s face in his hands and looking into his eyes. “Whatever you fought about; he will want to know that you have been hurt.”_

_“He already knows.” Thranduil tries to explain, tears burning again in his eyes. “I was taken from the Greenwood.” His uncle frowns at him, before sighing heavily._

_“Either way, you need a healer for your hands, Thranduil.”_

_“Can we go to the river, first?” Thranduil asks, knowing the River Running must be somewhere near to them, for no one goes into the plains without keeping within range of the river._

_“Thranduil-“_

_“Please, Uncle. I know I’m tainted forever now, but I want to be… as clean as I possibly can be._ Please?” _He begs, letting his uncle see just how dearly he’s hanging on by a thread._

_“Alright.” His uncle agrees, lifting him up into his arms and carrying him away from the place of his ruination._

* * *

“You’re not ruined, ada.” Legolas tells him when he stops speaking.

“I know, ion nin.” Thranduil answers, closing his eyes and breathing as he feels Legolas’ hands in his hair again. “For a while it felt like I was, though.”

“Why did grandfather not save you?” Legolas demands, when Thranduil opens his eyes to look at him, he finds an unhappy frown on his face. “You’d come for me, no matter what we fought about!”

“Your grandfather and all of our people were tearing through the forest and the surrounding lands searching for me. The orcs had gone further into the plains than even I had assumed and our people did not search that far out.” Thranduil explains, sighing heavily and shaking his head. “If it wasn’t for Uncle Celeborn, I wouldn’t have been found.”

“How did he find you?”

“That’s the sheer dumb luck portion I mentioned earlier.” Thranduil answers, absently picking at the hem of his robe. “Uncle Celeborn had been visiting Dorwinion, on a favour for your grandfather. He was returning along the river’s edge when he heard my screaming.”

“That _is_ sheer dumb luck.”

“Yes, it is.” Thranduil agrees, nodding his head. “Uncle Celeborn got me back to Greenwood and I refused to leave Amon Lanc for a few hundred years or so afterwards. For a long time, I barely even left my room.”

“But you didn’t sail, like Cousin Celebrian?”

“I couldn’t leave my adar.” Thranduil explains, smiling at Legolas, who stares at him with wide eyes. “I was the only thing he had left in this world and I didn’t want him to fade.” Thranduil says, knowing full well the situation is now a mirror with him and Legolas, they are the only thing the other has left that is tying them to this realm.

“Did you want to sail?”

“No, even now I do not want to.” Thranduil answers, shaking his head. “I stayed for my adar, but over time, I realized that I wouldn’t let what happened define me or decide my life for me.”

“That’s good.” Legolas says, frowning at him.

“What?”

“What would have happened if Uncle Celeborn didn’t find you?”

“I assume the orcs would have attempted to bargain with my father for… something. I’m not quite sure what two lone orcs could possibly have hoped to achieve. Or-” Thranduil pauses, looks down into his lap and frowns, mulling his words over in his head before he speaks them into being, gives them substance by giving them voice. “-they would have kept me for sport until I died or became like them. Such has been the fate of many an elf since Morgoth befouled our people.”

“Grandfather would have found you.” Legolas disagrees, almost immediately, Thranduil looks up at him in surprise.

“You think so?” he queries, raising an eyebrow.

“If he’s anything like you are, he would have found you.” Legolas confirms, nodding. “If I was lost, you’d never stop looking for me, would you?”

“No, ion nin, I would not.”

“So, he would have found you. Uncle Celeborn just beat him to it.” Legolas decides, smiling at him, eyes full of so much _faith,_ Thranduil has to look away. He doesn’t know how his son manages to keep such blind faith, such open innocence and childish naivete even after everything that he has suffered. Thranduil, himself, had long lost his own by this age. “I’m going to go find Galion.”

“Whatever for?” Thranduil asks, blinking at his son, wondering if he has managed to zone out once again.

“Elladan and Elrohir are going to be visiting in a few days and I need to find someone to cover me on the Patrols, since they said I could join them.” Legolas says, Thranduil still feels like he’s missed something. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Join them?” Thranduil queries, his confusion not lessening in the least.

“We’re going hunting.” The words leave Legolas’ mouth and suddenly Thranduil understands.

“Hunting. For orcs?” he asks, having heard about the righteous and ruthless hunts the twin sons of Elrond have been engaging in since their mother was taken from them.

“Yes. I am a warrior of Greenwood. You cannot claim that going hunting with Elladan and Elrohir is any more dangerous than patrolling the forest.” Legolas argues, Thranduil can’t fault him because nothing he has said is untrue, but he doesn’t want his son falling into anger, the way Elrond’s sons have. Not over him, and not over Lindariel, either.

“I will let you go, on a few conditions.” He finally decides, knowing nothing he says will convince his son not to follow this path. His son is too much like him, too much like Oropher.

“Alright?”

“The first condition: you come back to me in one piece, _always_. In fact, this is a condition for you ever leaving my Halls. You will _always_ come back to me as you left me.”

“I can’t promise something that I cannot control, adar, you know that. But I will always _try_ my absolute best to make it back to you in one piece.”

“Fine. The second condition: do not become reckless. This rage that has taken hold of Elrond’s sons will see one or both of them dead if they do not see the folly of their actions. There will _always_ be more orcs, Legolas. Until we have eradicated Morgoth’s taint from this world forever, there will always be more.”

“I know, adar. I won’t be reckless.” Legolas promises, and Thranduil struggles to believe him, because he knows exactly how reckless the both of them can be at a moment’s notice.

“Final condition: if you are doing this for me, _don’t_.” he says, watching the confusion that forms on his son’s face. “You serve me better being here, than you would out risking your life to hunt some orc.”

“I promise, adar.”

“Then you have my blessing to join Elrond’s twins, but you will tell me when you are leaving and you will seek me out the moment you return.” The words taste like ash in his mouth, but he knows better than to try and cage his son.

“I will. I’m going to get Galion!” Legolas states, giving him a tight hug, before jumping to his feet and rushing out. Thranduil watches him go with a small frown, before he climbs to his feet and goes to curl up in his bed, feeling suddenly like that vulnerable prince he stopped being all those years ago. Though, sometimes, he wonders if he ever stopped being that prince or if he just got better at wearing his masks.

* * *

Thranduil doesn’t know how long he’s been curled up in his bed, when he hears the door open and shut and light footsteps crossing to the bed.

“How quickly do you think Celeborn will be here?” his oldest, living, friend queries, sinking down onto the bed beside him. Thranduil laughs and moves himself so he can lean into his friend’s warm comfort.

“He probably left Lorien a few days ago. The Valar are odd that way, they send him running to me before I even know I need him and before he even knows he is needed.” He replies, letting his eyes drift closed as Galion starts playing with his hair. This is a routine they had down thousands of years ago.

“Aye, probably. I’ve prepared his room, anyway.” Galion answers, a little laughter in his voice, that’s gone when he speaks again. “You were very brave, telling Legolas.”

“I don’t feel brave.” Thranduil argues, because he doesn’t, he feels exhausted and raw and numb all at once and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You never do, mellon nin, but you always are.” Galion assures him, Thranduil assumes he’s braiding his hair, from the feeling of his hands through the long strands.

“Elrond’s sons are taking Legolas hunting with them in a few days.” Thranduil says, wanting to pull the subject from how brave or not brave he may be. “I gave Legolas my blessing to go.”

“Well, short of locking him up, you can’t stop him from going. Perhaps, having Legolas there will pull the twins from their rage.”

“That was my thinking.” Thranduil agrees, sighing heavily. “Sometimes he is so young and other times I remember that he is older than I was… _then_.”

“He is a warrior of Greenwood, yes. But he is our Prince and we coddle him as much as we are able. He has suffered, but he has never been without support or comfort. It was not the same for us.” Galion points out, his hands stilling in their movements while his friend considers his words.

“Nothing was right after Doriath.” Thranduil says, remembering seeing his home ravaged not just once, but twice and how helpless and lost he had been for a long time afterwards.

“Doriath was _our_ sanctuary, as we have made this Legolas’.” Galion agrees, sighing heavily. “When the sanctuary was broken, first by the Naugrim, then by those faithless Kinslayers, we were broken, too. For a really long time. I think we were only really just beginning to heal when we marched off to Mordor and so few came home. Then Amon Lanc was gone, our new sanctuary stolen from us and, as if that weren’t enough, the Darkness claimed it for their own. Legolas doesn’t know what it is to have nowhere to call home, because home is a broken city filled with the bodies of the people you love and you can’t go back.”

“I worry what will happen when the innocence of his youth is finally torn away from him and he is forced to see this world as it truly is.” Thranduil admits, as Galion’s fingers begin to move once again.

“He will be fine, because he is stubborn and brave like his father.” Galion promises, Thranduil snorts but doesn’t argue against the compliment.

“He’s strong.” Thranduil agrees, with a sigh. “But I still worry for him.”

“You are strong and yet I worry about you endlessly.”

“I’m not-“

“My beloved friend, you are the strongest person I know.” Galion states, cutting over whatever Thranduil wanted to say. “That day Celeborn carried you through the gates at Amon Lanc, you were so still and quiet in his arms. Your eyes were closed and I couldn’t even tell if you were breathing. I thought you were dead. I thought ‘Ai Valar, Celeborn is bringing my best friend home to me, dead’ and in that moment, I felt a piece of me die.”

“Galion-“

“I chased Celeborn all through Amon Lanc, to the Healing Halls, your name was the only thing on my lips that whole way. The doors were shut, they wouldn’t let me in to see you, they wouldn’t tell me anything. I sat on the floor outside the Healing Halls for _hours._ The only ones allowed in were your father, Celeborn, the healers, and anyone who needed healing.” Thranduil listens to the words tumbling from his friends mouth and he wants to speak up and assure his friend that he’s fine, but his words keep failing him. “I considered just falling on my own sword, because they’d have to let me in then and if I was in, then maybe I could find some way to be near you, so I could say goodbye and that I’d see you soon. Because we swore, in the ruins of Doriath that first time, that we go together or not at all and I wasn’t going to let you break your promise so easily.”

“Mellon-“

“Then Lindariel was there, telling me that you were awake and that you were asking for me and I almost passed out. She all but dragged me through the Healing Halls to stand at your bedside and I wanted to ask if she was sure she’d taken me to the right bed, because you looked so small and broken and I was so scared because you’re always so big and strong. I thought ‘Ai, Valar, Celeborn has bought my best friend home to me so I can watch him fade before my eyes’. But you _didn’t_. Some days, I’m sure I was breathing for both of us, that my heart was beating for us both, but every time I looked for you, you were still there, so I told myself to keep breathing, told my heart to keep beating because as long as you were still here, I would be, too.”

“You never left.” Thranduil whispers, letting himself think back to those chaotic and desolate days following the attack. “Every time I woke up, you were there beside me.”

“I was. Lindariel and your father and Celeborn had to drag me away from you whenever they wanted me to leave. But I always came back. I was terrified that I would return to your bedside one day only to find that you’d faded while I was gone. But it didn’t happen. You were always still there when I got back and I was so grateful. When you finally told me, what had happened to you, do you remember what I did?” Galion asks, Thranduil sighs and sits himself up, so he can look properly into his friends eyes as he pulls up the memory.

“You thanked me.” Thranduil finally says, frowning at the memory.

“I thanked you for being the most stubborn asshole I’ve ever met. For having the strongest heart and the most iron will.” Galion confirms, nodding his head. “Because you survived what had already killed so many of our people and you _kept on_ surviving and I knew it was all _you.”_

“I did it for adar.”

“I know.” Galion agrees, nodding emphatically. “I know. Because you loved Oropher so much you refused to leave him to face this world alone. I _know_. But you had the will to keep going, where so many of our people simply gave up. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. But you _didn’t_ , because you don’t know how to give up, mellon nin. Your will is so strong it tied you to life, even when your soul was screaming to be set free. You are unbelievably strong and it kills me that you can’t see it.”

“It’s not like that.” Thranduil protests, feels the blush blooming on his cheeks. Ever since that day, he's struggled to accept compliments, even from those he knows would never lie to him.

“It _is_ like that. You did it again when Oropher was taken from us and we all turned to you for guidance in that hellish land. You did it again when we came home and Amon Lanc was stolen from us, and we all looked to you, homeless and broken and lost and you took us out of the ruin and gave us a new home. You did it again when Lindariel was taken from us along with so many others and we looked to you for guidance, once again, and you showed us how to push forward, even when we didn’t want to.” Galion laughs, the sound too bitter to ever be welcome on his friend’s lips, Thranduil hates hearing it. “Sometimes, I swear you were the only thing keeping us all together while you were trying to keep yourself together, too. Never doubt your strength, Thranduil. Our people don’t and they never will. It’s like Tulkas himself gifted you some of his strength. Even when you’ve earned the right to give up, you don’t. Even when you probably should, you don’t.”

“That just means I’m stupid.” Thranduil points out, grinning at the glare Galion gives him, then Galion smirks.

“That was never in doubt.” He hits back without missing a beat and Thranduil gasps in mock-surprise.

“ _Betrayed._ I have been betrayed!” Thranduil exclaims, clutching his hands to his heart. “Ai, Valar, how shall I survive such betrayal?”

“It’s not treason to tell you something you already know.” Galion points out, a devilish grin on his face. “Afterall, I was only agreeing with you, you were the one who said it.”

“Lies!” Thranduil declares, launching himself at Galion and very quickly the pair are rolling across the bed, wrestling as they did when they were young elflings and Luthien used to egg them on from the side-lines, while their parents looked on in mortified silence.

Eventually, Thranduil collapses against the mattress with an exhausted huff, Galion falling beside him, both of them breathing heavily.

“I won.” Galion points out, laughing when Thranduil whacks him with a pillow that had been within reach. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I won.”

“Eru, I’d like to exchange the brother you have given me; he is defective!” Thranduil exclaims to the thin air, Galion laughs, only laughing harder when Thranduil pouts at him.

“I’m pretty sure we agreed that no givesies backsies was the rule?”

“ _Do not_ let Legolas hear you saying that!” Thranduil exclaims, in shock at having heard the words for the first time since Doriath. “I can’t _believe_ you remember that!”

“It was the day we met, of course I remember it!”

“You remember some of the silliest things.”

“Of course, I do, that’s my job. You remember the useful things; I remember the silly things.” Galion points out, rolling onto his side and snuggling his face into the mattress. “Go to sleep, mellon nin. We’ll probably have an overly worried Lord to deal with in the morning.” He says, laughing when Thranduil just presses the pillow to his face and groans into it. “He’s _your_ uncle.” Galion points out, grinning when his only response is another groan.

“You’re such a traitor!” Thranduil finally grumbles, pulling the pillow away to glare at him.

“Yes, but I’m _your_ traitor.”

“That’s literally not a good thing!” Thranduil shrieks, but Galion just laughs and rolls his eyes.

“So judgemental, aran nin! And after all I’ve done for you!” Galion exclaims, pressing his hand over his heart and moaning like he’s been hurt. “How you hurt your poor Galion so.”

“How come you get to betray me and _I’m_ the villain of the story?” Thranduil bemoans, while Galion just continues to moan dramatically. Thranduil whacks him with the pillow again, laughing when Galion gasps.

“Hitting a man while he’s already down. You were raised better than this, Oropherion!” Galion scolds, adding spluttering coughs to his act for the dramatic affect.

“No. No, I _really_ wasn’t.” Thranduil points out, smirking. “And neither were you.”

“That’s so true.” Galion agrees, with a sage nod, before he huffs out a sigh. “Will you go to sleep now? I really wasn’t kidding about Celeborn.”

“I suppose I shall sleep.” Thranduil gives in with a huff of his own, putting the pillow behind his head and readjusting so he’s comfortable. “Goodnight, mellon nin.”

“Goodnight, Thranduil.” Galion murmurs, getting comfortable himself. “I will be here when you wake.”

“Hannon le.” Thranduil mumbles, voice already slurred as he gives into slumber.

* * *

Galion wakes suddenly, roused from slumber so abruptly he almost doesn’t realize he is awake until the noise that woke him registers in his mind and he’s scrambling to sit up in the darkness.

“Thranduil.” He calls, trying to make his voice heard over the sounds of his best friend, his _king,_ screaming. He knows he shouldn’t touch him, knows that Thranduil awakes violently when he’s forced from his nightmares, but Galion no longer has a choice. He’s just about to wake him when he hears the door burst open and finds Legolas in the doorway.

“Go back to bed, ernil nin.” Galion says, climbing from the bed and all put pushing Legolas from the room. “Your father would not want you to see him this way and you could get hurt.”

“But-“

“It’s just a night terror. He will be fine. Please, go back to bed. I cannot be worrying about both of you right now.” Galion pleads, Legolas stares at his father once more, before swallowing thickly and nodding his head, backing from the room. Galion shuts the door and climbs back onto the bed, where his friend is still screaming.

Galion sucks in a deep breath and then reaches forward to roughly shake Thranduil’s shoulders, calling his name. The moment his king moves, Galion lets go, let’s himself go limp as Thranduil rolls them over, his king’s hands closing around his throat and squeezing.

“Mellon nin, wake up.” He chokes out, looking up into eyes still clouded with sleep. “You’re safe. Wake up. It's Galion.” He watches the cloud fading away, confusion seeping in, in its place. The hands around his neck loosen and then fall away and the next thing Galion’s knows, his friend is collapsing beside him, sobbing. Galion rubs at his neck for just a second, before he rolls over, wrapping his arms around Thranduil and holding on tightly. “You’re safe. It was just a dream. It’s over. You’re alright.” He murmurs an endless stream of assurances, until slowly, Thranduil’s sobbing subsides.

“I thought I was over the night terrors.” Thranduil whispers, staring at the wall, Galion sighs.

“You brought the memories back up, on purpose. They’re going to be near the surface for a while, you know this.” Thranduil doesn’t respond and he also doesn’t attempt to go back to sleep, so Galion sighs again. “Alright, come on.”

“Where are we going?” Thranduil asks, as he lets Galion grab his arm and all but pull him from bed.

“You’ll see.” Galion answers, before pausing to frown at Thranduil’s elaborate court robes. “Ugh. You need to change.”

“I don’t even know where we are going!” Thranduil exclaims, exasperated, even as he starts working himself free of the finery.

“That’s why I’m here, it _is_ my job to dress you, you remember?” Galion queries, before disappearing into the King’s wardrobe, lighting the torch within to help him see. He gathers up a simple green tunic and dark brown trousers, before blowing out the torch and going back to his friend, who has escaped his robes.

“Are we sneaking out?” Thranduil asks, taking the tunic and pants from his friend and hurrying to put them on.

“We _might_ be sneaking out; I couldn’t possibly say in the presence of my king.” Galion answers, with a grin, as he watches Thranduil huff and pile his hair up on his head in a messy bun, tying it off with a ribbon.

“There are no kings here.” Thranduil teases, blowing a few loose strands out of his eyes. Galion grabs his arm and pulls him along to the window, pushing it open and slipping out, standing carefully on the ledge on the other side. Thranduil is only a few seconds behind him, before he pauses and ducks back in, Galion’s about to go back inside to search for him when his friend reappears, with his swords strapped at his sides. Galion doesn’t think his friend has ever left home without them since that horrible day. “Now what?” Thranduil whispers, keeping his voice down, lest any of their guards hear them.

“Now, we see how much sitting on your throne has ruined you for tree climbing, aran nin.” Galion tells him, letting out a little giggle as he leaps out of Thranduil’s range and onto a branch of a tree hanging just outside the window. He hears the tree’s enthusiastic greeting in his mind and he returns it, turning to watch Thranduil leap across.

“I’m a wood-elf, Galion. How could I _ever_ be ruined for tree climbing?” his friend huffs at him, Galion just laughs, scaling up the tree to the higher branches, before he leaps to another one. Listening to his friend following behind him. “Where are we going?” his friend hisses, landing lightly on the branch beside him when Galion stops to wait.

Galion sets off again, greeting the trees and listening to their news as he moves from tree branch to tree branch, journeying further North. He smiles as he feels the trees’ excitement at having their king among them once more, and when he turns to look, he sees the smile on friend’s face. He leads the king to a large pond, hidden by the trees around it. He stops and sits on one of the branches over the water, waiting for his friend and listening to the forest’s song.

“I didn’t know this was here.” Thranduil exclaims, sinking down beside him, looking down at the pond with open curiosity. “Why are we here?”

“You’ll see. Don’t mind getting wet, do you?” Galion asks, before tipping himself forward and free-falling into the water. He breaks the surface and lets himself sink for a few seconds before shooting upwards, breaking the water in time to hear his friend curse, before he watches a blur of green and brown collapsing out of the tree line and splashing into the water beside him. He watches his king’s head burst back out of the water, enjoys the laughter that follows.

“Now what?” Thranduil asks, looking at him with such a youthful smile, Galion grins in response and holds out his hand.

“You trust me, right?” he queries, sees the frown that forms on his friend’s face, but Thranduil doesn’t hesitate to put his hand in Galion’s.

“Always.”

“Then, take a deep breath and trust me.” Galion tells him, waiting until Thranduil has done as commanded, then Galion clings to Thranduil’s hand as he dives under the water. Let’s his eyes adjust to the water before he’s shooting off towards the eerie blue glow beneath them. As always, just as he thinks he will run out of air, he reaches the little glowing tunnel and tugs Thranduil with him along it to breach the surface at the other end.

He and Thranduil suck in precious air once they break the surface, he squeezes Thranduil’s hand before letting go to reach up and grab the ledge above them, scrambling up the wall to sit and wait for Thranduil to climb up beside him.

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Galion says, indicating the cave around them that is glowing from hundreds of little, cold, blue lights in the ceiling, that have always reminded Galion of starlight.

“What is this place?” Thranduil asks, staring above them with unbridled awe.

“No one knows. Meludir found this place when we first moved into the mountain, when all the young ones were exploring as far as we thought safe for them.” Galion explains, climbing to his feet and moving to stand in the centre of the cave. “We’re not really sure what feeds the pond or what causes the ceiling to glow. But… I mean, it’s Greenwood, odd things happen here all the time. For instance, we still don't know what caused the Enchanted River...”

“Why bring me here?”

“Because it’s beautiful to look at. Because you needed to get out of the mountain. Because the forest wanted to see you. Any number of reasons, but you also should know about this place, I’ve been meaning to tell you about it since Legolas decided it would have a purpose.”

“Legolas knows about this?”

“Of course, Meludir showed him the first day on Patrol.” Galion answers, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “In any case, this is the designated base to retake the forest, should the mountain ever fall.”

“Oh?” Thranduil queries, finally standing up to come and stand at Galion’s side. “Is there another way out?”

“Yes. Only one other entrance, it leads out to the edge of the forest, where it meets the Ered Mithrin. That entrance is also hidden, fallen trees and such. The Patrols check regularly to ensure this cave system remains empty and viable.”

“No one thought to tell me?”

“Well, that was my job. But no one really expects the mountain to fall, so it’s become a sort of secret.” Galion explains, shrugging his shoulders. “I just thought you might like the view.”

“It is beautiful.” Thranduil agrees, looking above them again. “But, I think, for now that I want to go and listen to the trees.”

“Come on, then. We can come back down here some other time to explore.”

* * *

They lie beside the pond, eyes closed while they listen to the song of the forest. Listening as the creatures of the night turn to their slumber and the creatures of the day begin to come out. They talk little, merely enjoying the other’s company, able to pretend for once in a few thousand years that neither of them is in charge of keeping an entire realm going. That they are just Thranduil and Galion and nothing more.

It’s when Anor is starting his journey that they finally move.

“Come along, aran nin. We must return before we are missed.” Galion mutters, slowly pushing up and onto his feet with a heavy sigh.

“Do you wonder what it would be like?” Thranduil queries, letting Galion pull him up.

“What do you mean?”

“Peace.” Thranduil answers, looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Legolas asked why I didn’t sail, like Celebrian. I told him I didn’t want to, but I don’t think I’ll ever want to sail. The Valar will get me in Aman only via Mandos’ halls and no other path. Because I cannot imagine what purpose life holds if there are no hardships. I get up every day and I push on because I must. Because to do otherwise would see our home going up in flames again. Even knowing that is my purpose, I’m tired. Tired of getting out of bed in the morning, tired of sitting in on council meetings, tired of diplomacy talks. It’s all just endless and exhausting and I cannot imagine having to do it every single day for the purpose of… just being. Here, we fight and are grateful for every day that we have, in Aman the days are just expected, like there's no feasble reason you won't have a tomorrow. Why go through so much exhausting nonsense for nothing? Lorien is a replica of the Blessed Realm, but it’s… lifeless and I can’t imagine enduring _that_ for eternity.”

“I don’t remember the last time I visited Lorien. Though, I know that some of the younger ones refuse to go near the forest, they say it feels like it has no soul.” Galion points out, contemplating his words. “They say the forest is content, but it has forgotten how to be anything else. They say that the Galadhrim have forgotten what it means to long for something or to fear something so greatly that it becomes a facet of their daily lives. Meludir says that in Lorien, they are, and that is it.”

“Yes.” Thranduil nods emphatically, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. “Yes, that exactly. The Galadhrim simply _are,_ but we are more. Greater. Sometimes, we are happy, sometimes we are sad, sometimes we are exhausted, sometimes we are overjoyed. We are always something more than just being. Something more than just being present in the moment.”

“Why are you thinking about this?”

“I don’t know.” Thranduil answers, before seeming to shake himself out of whatever mood had overtaken him, then he scales up into the treetops. “Come along, mellon. We’ll be late!”

* * *

Thranduil and Galion are fussing at Thranduil’s hair when there’s a knock at the outer door, the two friends share a look before Galion steps out to see who their visitor is, leaving Thranduil to try and tame his hair. It doesn’t take him too long to get frustrated enough to start pulling the mess into a braid, instead.

“Don’t rush, mellon nin.” Galion’s voice says from the doorway, Thranduil shifting to look towards him, blinking in surprise at Galion’s shadow. “Did I not predict this?” his friend queries, a smug grin on his face. “I shall go inform the Council that we have a diplomatic visitor and that the meeting is postponed.” Galion announces, turning on his heel and leaving before Thranduil can say a word for or against.

“I was expected?” Galion’s former shadow queries, Thranduil hums and turns back to the mirror, scowling up at the random curls in his hair. He honestly doesn’t know where it comes from but is only _relatively_ certain it has nothing to do with the foolish, harmless little curses that he and Luthien used to put on each other when they were upset with the other. While he’s mostly certain such curses have nothing to do with this situation, he does often find his hair curling at the least opportune times, despite such not being a family trait, and it always _had_ been Luthien's favourite way to torment him.

“Legolas asked me a difficult question last night.” Thranduil answers his uncle's query, running his fingers through the curls and pulling on his magic to straighten them out. “Galion and I assumed you’d probably make an appearance, since you normally do when I am upset.”

“I did actually have a reason for visiting this time.” Celeborn points out, crossing to stand behind Thranduil and reaching down to pick up the brush Galion had discarded. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours?” his uncle queries, an amused little grin on his lips, as he starts brushing out Thranduil’s hair. Thranduil snorts and clasps his hands in his lap.

“Perhaps you should tell me your news first? Else I’ll have to put up with your fussing and never learn the purpose of your visit.”

“Oh, alright.” Celeborn answers, easily, as if he’s not concerned what he may hear later that would cause him to fuss. “My son-in-law has requested I keep an eye on his wayward sons.”

“Ah, yes, they’re hunting once again.” Thranduil confirms with a small nod. “They’ve asked Legolas to join them and I’ve agreed.” He says, glancing up to meet his uncle’s eyes in the mirror. “Should I not have?”

“No, that’s fine. Legolas is an adult; he knows what the risks are. Elrond is merely worried that his sons will leave all reason behind at the door of his home one day, and that they might not come back to reclaim it.” Celeborn explains, starting to pull Thranduil’s hair into the intricate half-crown braid that he and Luthien used to do in each other’s hair in Doriath so long ago.

“Yes, a condition of my agreement was that Legolas would not allow himself to be reckless.” Thranduil points out, glaring at the amusement he sees forming on his uncle’s face. “Yes, I already know that it’s practically a lost cause. Do not mention it.”

“I wasn’t saying anything, elfling.” Celeborn answers, but the laughter in his voice is not at all hidden. “If Legolas is going, we can foist Meludir onto them and he can watch them.”

“You want the Captain of my Home Guard to babysit my son and Elrond’s?” Thranduil queries, laughing. “You do know how important he is to our war effort?”

“We could send Feren instead?”

“That’s worse! The General of my Armies needs to be present to lead said armies, should the need arise.”

“Isn’t that what you’re for?” Celeborn asks, raising an eyebrow at him, Thranduil huffs.

“Yes, I suppose.” He answers with a glare. “We’ll send Calenion.”

“Oh, yes, because your Spymaster has nothing better to do than babysit his prince.”

“ _You_ are the one who suggested both the Captain of the Home Guard and the General of the Armies, yet you think my Spymaster to be ‘too important’ to send on this mission?” Thranduil asks, laughter bubbling in his throat. “What exactly do you think we do in this forest, Uncle?”

“Too much.” Celeborn answers, startling Thranduil, who looks up at him in the mirror, confusion clear on his face. “I lived in Doriath, too, elfling. I remember the feel of Melian’s Girdle clinging to me whenever I was within it.” Thranduil considers the merits of lying for a single moment before dismissing them with a huff. Crossing his arms over his chest as his uncle starts putting pins through his hair.

“I am not as powerful as Melian.” Thranduil explains, mulling his words over in his mind before speaking them. “I cannot prevent people from entering the forest against my will, but I can distort the reality of things while they are within the boundary, among other things.”

“Do you know who enters your forest?”

“Sometimes, yes. I know when evil things pass through the barrier and when good things pass through, also. I cannot tell specifically who has passed through unless I have interacted with them in some form since I placed the barrier. Now that you’re here and we’re interacting, I’ll know where you are whenever you’re within the barrier.” Thranduil says, with a sigh, before he frowns at his uncle. “Doesn’t the Lady Galadriel have something similar in Lorien?”

“Not really, no. She does not use Nenya to keep track of the beings within our borders. Though, she might begin to do so from now on.” Celeborn answers, before returning Thranduil’s frown. “I was under the impression trying to hold such a barrier without being a Maia or without having a powerful artifact to hold the barrier for you, would be… dangerous?”

“It can be.” Thranduil acknowledges, suddenly finding his fingernails very interesting.

“Elfling-“

“So, last night Legolas asked me if I’ve ever been tortured before.” Thranduil cuts over whatever scolding Celeborn was about to give him. His uncle’s jaw slams shut with an audible click, that has Thranduil wincing. He looks up at his uncle in the mirror, finds him staring into the abyss.

“What did you tell him?” Celeborn finally answers, though he doesn’t move a single inch and Thranduil can tell his mind is still far away.

“The truth.” Thranduil replies, pushing away from the desk and getting to his feet, absently running his hand over the braid in his hair, feeling out the clips as he crosses to collect his spring crown from its stand, gently resting the band of spring flowers over the crown braid and turning to look back at Celeborn, finds his uncle is now watching him with narrowed eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You know it’s alright if you’re not fine?”

“I know. But I really think I am fine. The night terrors have come back, but Galion says that’s normal.” Thranduil pauses, to consider his words before shaking his head. “At least, if I’m not fine, I think I will be, that’s the same, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, not quite.” Celeborn disagrees, turning to tidy up the desk a little. “It’s a good first step, though. Knowing, or at least realizing, that you’ll be fine one day, even if you’re not fine now. Because you don’t have to be fine now, you just can’t let yourself believe that this is how you’ll always feel.”

“I know. I…“ Thranduil hesitates, swallows whatever words he was going to say that he didn’t even get a chance to acknowledge before he asks something else. “Will you sail one day?” His uncle frowns at the question and Thranduil supposes it does seem like an abrupt question change, but he knows why he asks.

“I imagine I shall, one day. Galadriel wants to return to the land of her birth, Celebrian is already there. I have no desire to sail, but one day I might.” Celeborn answers, running his fingers along the desk as he thinks. “Why do you ask?”

“I realized this morning that I will never sail.”

“Never?”

“Aman is… it’s a _dream_ , Uncle.” Thranduil exclaims, sinking down onto the edge of his bed with a huff. “Like all dreams, it can turn into a nightmare. Supposedly, in Aman, I will find healing for all that I suffered here in Middle-earth, but how can they give me healing when it is only my memories that bring me pain now? Will they take my memories from me? Just… rip them from my head like they haven’t played any part in shaping who I am? And the memories that are sorrow and happiness mingled, what happens with them? Are they too sad for me to be allowed to keep them in Aman?”

“I would have thought you would want to give up the memories?” Celeborn queries, coming to sit beside him on the bed.

“I couldn’t think of anything worse than…” Thranduil sighs, and shakes his head, struggling to find the right words to explain how he feels. “If I forget that an event happened, does it suddenly mean that event _never_ happened? Or just that I have forgotten that it did? If I forget that I have a son, does that stop Legolas from being my son? Or does it just mean that I don’t remember?”

“I see your point, but I don’t know why you would want to remember.”

“Are you the same person now as you were when Celebrian was born? The same person who watched Luthien, Galion, and I make fools of ourselves in Thingol’s halls? The same person who all but dragged me out of Doriath as it burned? The same person who held me long into the night when I cried after killing for the first time? The same person who convinced my father to let me marry Lindariel? The same person who lifted me out of the dirt and dragged me back into reality when I couldn’t see anything but my father lying dead before me? The same person who doted over Legolas when he was born?” Thranduil pauses, breathing in deeply, before letting out a gentle sigh. “Are you the same person now as you were the day you found me out on the plains screaming and naked and hurt beyond imagining?”

“I-I don’t-“

“Or is the person you are now the combination of all of those people? Each and every experience building and changing the person you were before them? We are shaped by our good memories and the bad ones and without the bad memories, I don’t know who I am.” Thranduil’s breath hitches and the tears burn in his eyes even as he tries to stop them. “ _I know who I am, Celeborn!_ No one gets to tell me who I am, but me! They can’t just rip out the pieces of me that they don’t like and keep the parts of me that they think are satisfactory, and then tell me that I’m healed and that all is well! I am more than just my good experiences!” he doesn’t realize he’s yelling until he stops and he’s panting like a mad thing, all the anger that had welled within him deserts him in a second and he wilts, sinking into his uncle’s open arms. “I know who I am. I don’t need their healing. I don’t. I know who I am. I know-“ he mumbles into his uncle’s chest, the words repeating like they’ve gotten stuck in his mind.

“Shh, Thranduil. You’re right. No one can decide who you are, but you.” His uncle soothes, rocking him like a child, but instead of feeling embarrassed, he soaks up the comfort being offered and tries to catch his breath. “No one will make you sail if you don’t want to and if you don’t sail, I won’t either.”

“But-“

“If the Valar wanted me to one day just leave you behind, perhaps they should have stopped putting me in your path when you needed me?” his uncle queries, and he can’t help the shaky laugh that bursts from him.

“Maybe so.” He agrees, wiping at his face, with the sleeve of his robe. “I thought we agreed I wasn’t going to cry about this anymore?”

“Hmm. I seem to remember you deciding that and we all wished you luck.” His uncle points out and Thranduil laughs again and shakes his head. “Also, excellent use of diversion, but we’ll be talking about the Barrier again, later.”

“You know I’m not a child anymore, right? I am _actually_ a fully grown ellon, I even rule my own kingdom and everything.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” His uncle teases, groaning when Thranduil jabs him in the stomach with his elbow. “Fair play, elfling, and _thank you_ for teaching Celebrian that!”

“She taught Legolas that, so it came back to bite me in the end.” Thranduil points out with a sad little sigh. “I suppose that’s what the humans mean when they speak of Karma.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Celeborn hums in agreement, before sighing heavily. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.” Thranduil answers, pulling away to look into his uncle’s eyes. “I don’t think I ever thanked you, for saving me that day, and all the other days.”

“You don’t have to. The day your father put you in my arms, I promised that I would protect you and I always will.” His uncle states, waving away his thanks. “Now, what do you say we go and cause some mischief before my grandsons arrive to cause even more?” the grin that answers his question is youthful and bright and so full of life.


End file.
